


Devil on His Shoulder

by Magestorrow



Category: Bartimaeus - Jonathan Stroud, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossover, M/M, Slow Burn, and now i do, i never intended to ship them, set at the beginning of season four and after the end of the trilogy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2019-09-17 00:22:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16964259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magestorrow/pseuds/Magestorrow
Summary: Dean Winchester has returned from Hell. But things have changed greatly in the six months that he has been gone, and his brother has found a new partner in the form of a snarky, sarcastic hunter supposedly named Bartholomew. As Heaven continues to whisper in Dean's ear about the coming Apocalypse and the danger Bartholomew poses to humanity in the form of an angel named Castiel, Sam slips farther and farther into the darkness with Bartholomew never far behind. Will Dean be able to convince those around him of the threat that is Bartholomew, or will his brother be lost forever to the demon blood coursing through his veins?Or, rather: Sam Winchester accidentally summons a five thousand year old djinni when trying to find a demon who will bring his brother back from Hell, and falls steadily more in love with him as they try to stop the end of the world.





	1. Chapter 1

Dean Winchester had returned from Hell. He didn't know how or why yet, though he strongly suspected the incident in the abandoned gas station and the hand mark on his arm were at fault. It had only been six months—though it had felt like a lifetime when he was stuck down below—but his brother had somehow managed to slip under the radar. Bobby didn't have a clue where to find him. Hell, no hunter did. A few phone calls confirmed that he was still alive, at least, but Sam Winchester rarely stayed to visit with any of the hunters that had encountered him in the past six months.

He ended up tracking Sam down with the GPS in his phone. At least, he hoped he had found Sam. There was the slim chance that someone had taken the phone, but he was more game to believe that his brother had kept it. Add in how close the phone was to where he had been pulled out of the ground, and Dean was almost fully convinced that he had found his brother. 

He parked the car in the motel's parking lot. His brother had likely brought him back from Hell by making a deal with a demon. His stomach felt nauseous at the thought. First Dad, now his little Sammy? He wanted to feel angry, but he also felt horrible. He knew, deep, deep down inside, he wasn't worth saving. Hell would never let him forget that; memories of torturing soul after soul flashed through his mind as he and Bobby tracked Sam to the room at the end of the hallway.

Dean glanced at Bobby as they stood in front of the door. When Bobby gave a nod, Dean took a deep breath and knocked. There was the sound of movement from within the room, and quiet talking. “I'm not getting up,” an unfamiliar voice called out. “You can get it.”

“You're closer to the door,” Sam argued. From the way his voice was muffled, his face must have been inside another thick book. Dean allowed himself a smile at this; even if Sam had sold his soul to a demon, at least he was still the little brother he remembered leaving behind.

“I'm busy,” the other person said. The voice was young and masculine. The smile faded, and Dean immediately felt a monster roaring in his chest when he realized he had to be listening to another hunter. “Your pizza, not mine.”

“I didn't order any pizza,” Sam said, confused. “I was going to eat the leftovers from lunch-”

There was a pause. Dean went to knock on the door once more, then stopped when he heard chair legs being scraped across the floor. There was rustling, quiet whispers, and then the sound of two people making a move towards the door. Dean and Bobby both tensed as the door swung open. A second later, Dean found a gun in his face and Bobby was being stared down by the owner of the unfamiliar voice.

“Hi Sammy,” Dean managed to get out.

Sam clicked the safety off. 

The other hunter—strangely unarmed—glanced between Dean and his brother, eyes narrowing as they landed on Dean instead of Bobby. “That's your brother,” the man said. There was something about him that Dean didn't like—something about him that didn't seem right, didn't seem human. But he looked human, and seemed unaffected by the various wards and items that Dean could see stashed around the room.

“It's not him,” Sam said. 

“It's me, Sam,” Dean insisted. He crossed his arms and leveled a disapproving look that bordered on a glare at his younger brother. “But you already know that, don't you? Since you're the one who brought me back.”

Sam hesitated. The man went to take an intimidating step forward, but Sam reached his hand out and blocked the hunter from moving. The hunter turned and gave him a look of disbelief in response. 

“Sam,” he hissed, eyes still narrowed, “his aura is off.”

His strange comment was ignored as Sam promptly turned his attention to Bobby. Dean was a little bit upset that Sam didn't trust him enough—and confused on why Sam didn't believe it was him—but he would have likely done the same if their situations were reversed.

“It's him,” Bobby confirmed. “I ran every test I could think of on him. I don't know how, but your brother came back from Hell.”

The hunter threw his arms up, exasperated, and stormed back into the room as Sam abruptly pulled Dean into a tearful embrace. Dean was thrown off by the sudden show of affection, but eagerly returned it. It had been so long since he had seen his precious baby brother; he had lost all hope of ever seeing him again while in Hell. He put his anger at what Sam must have done aside. What mattered most was that the Winchesters were reunited. Once the hug concluded, he could address his disappointment.

They finally broke apart.

A moment of silence passed.

“So tell me, what'd it cost?”

Sam glanced around the room, then back at Dean. “The room? It looks good, but it was surprisingly cheap-”

“That's not funny, Sam. To bring me back. What'd it cost? Was it just your soul, or was it something worse?” He crossed his arms and gave Sam a furious look. Sam only stared down at him—had Sammy always been this tall? 

“He didn't bring you back,” the other hunter said from the corner of the motel room. He was laying on a perfectly made bed, back turned to the entrance as he read through one of Sam's notebooks. “In case you couldn't get it through your thick skull.”

Dean bristled with annoyance at the jab, but a quick utterance of “Dean” and “Bart” (addressed to the hunter) made both parties grow significantly less tense. Sam gestured for Bobby and Dean to enter the room. After exchanging a look, the two older hunters did as requested. Sam took a cursory glance of the hallway before shutting the door behind them. 

He sunk into the chair closest to the door, a tired expression on his face. As Sam massaged his temples, Dean remained standing beside Bobby. He couldn't sit down until he had all of the information. “I tried everything,” Sam said. His gaze briefly swept over to the now silent hunter, then traveled back to Dean. His voice was almost as quiet as a whisper; Dean had to strain his ears to pick up on what his brother was saying. “That's the truth. I tried opening the Devil's Gate. Hell, I tried to bargain, Dean, but no demon would deal, all right? You were rotting in Hell for months. For months, and I couldn't stop it. So I'm sorry it wasn't me, alright? Dean, I'm sorry.”

Dean took a deep breath.

“It's okay, Sammy,” he said. He sat down next to his brother. The hug in the doorway had been the extent of his physical affection towards his brother for the day, but he knew Sam would understand the meaning behind the gesture. 

Sam wasn't lying. He would have owned up to something like this, or he would have picked up on the lie in a heartbeat.

“You don't have to apologize. I believe you.”

Bobby cleared his throat. “Don't get me wrong—I'm gladdened that Sam's soul remains intact, but it does raise a sticky question.” 

Dean had been wondering the same exact thing. 

“If he didn't pull me out then what did-”

He was interrupted by the sound of a book slamming shut. “I'm done researching for today,” the hunter in the back of the room declared. He hopped off of the bed, marched over to the desk that was covered in books and notes, and plopped the book right on the top of an open book. 

Sam gave him a look.

“I'm ready for a hunt, Sam,” the hunter said. “Let's go track down those demons. You can chat with your brother later; we have a job to do-”

Sam crossed his arms.

“If you don't want to go now, I'll go by myself,” the hunter decided.

“I don't trust you by yourself,” Sam argued. “The last time I let you go on your own ended up in that warehouse being burned down.”

The hunter shrugged. “Blame it on the werewolf, not me.”

“Bart.” 

The man let out a dramatic sigh, then flopped into the nearest chair. This elicited an eye roll from Sam, but he didn't push the issue more. Instead, Sam turned back to his brother and Bobby. Dean watched the hunter with interest; the man—Bart—was in the middle of faking an extremely bored yawn. 

“This is Bart...” Sam started to say, then paused and briefly stared into Bart's dark eyes. The other hunter looked at him for a handful of seconds before watching a bird flit by outside the room's sole window instead. “Bartholomew.” 

Dean narrowed his eyes, and Bobby tensed where he was standing. Hunters were used to lying about names, and, more often or not, could spoke a fake one a mile away. Bartholomew absolutely reeked of falsehoods, but Sam didn't seem like he was planning on giving up his real name anytime soon.

Bart spun around and stared at Sam.

“If you're calling me Bartholomew, I'm calling you Samuel.”

Sam frowned. “You are not calling me that.”

“If you say so, Samuel.” An absolutely mischievous look appeared on his face. “Or should I go with Samantha instead?”

Dean felt another pang of jealousy as Sam and Bart continued to bicker; it reminded him of how they used to be. He barely managed to shake the thought from his head when Bobby interrupted Bart's teasing and asked for more information about Sam's hunting partner. Just the phrase alone made Dean feel even more antagonistic towards the mysterious “Bartholomew”.

Sam briefly locked eyes with Bart.

“We met on a job four months ago,” Sam said. There it was again. Sam was lying, and Dean couldn't possibly figure out why. It was impossible to tell if there was even some truth to what Sam was claiming, and Dean didn't want to ask. “We were hunting the same demon. After a couple more meetings, we realized that we made a good team and decided it was best to stick together.” 

Dean frowned, but didn't ask questions. 

Bart suddenly did another mock yawn. Hopping to his feet, he made a beeline towards the door—only to be stopped by Sam a few moments later. “Let me through, Samuel,” he said. “I won't go hunting without you, or the rest of your little hunter team. I just need some fresh air.”

Sam reluctantly did as asked.

Dean could just barely hear him say over the slamming of the door, “I'll be near the Impala.” 

And with that, Dean was left with his brother and Bobby.


	2. Chapter 2

**Four Months Ago**

Most summonings are simple. You get a magician asking for a difficult task to be completed. You help them get the love of their life. You retrieve a dangerous artifact. You do some hard labor and build them a fancy temple or skyscraper. And if you’re lucky, they might just be summoning for a bit of information. But no matter what the task is, you can complete it. It’s a waste of time on both of your parts if you can’t.

I’ve done my fair share of all the aforementioned tasks. It’s tedious and tiresome, and though I have always created the most magnificent final products—i.e. see Prague—it’s something I’d rather not do on a regular basis. I had just been in the middle of enjoying a wonderful break in the Other Place when the rude feeling of being jabbed with a thousand fishhooks blossomed into being. Multiple civilizations have rose and fallen under my watchful eye, but I still foolishly found myself trying to resist.

I never could, really.

I was summoned into a rundown little motel on the outskirts of an equally rundown town, stuck in a pentacle too small to house any of mu more imaginative forms. A quick look at my summoner gave me the general idea that a promiscuous guise would fail to have its intended effect, so I resigned myself to taking on a boring, regular human guise. For a moment, I contemplated between two different ones, eventually settling for the more ancient of the two. A certain lanky, youthful magician would look out of place among the empty beer bottles and pizza boxes.

A young Egyptian boy in his early teens appeared in the pentacle, wearing only a white loincloth around his waist.

Now that I had that matter settled, I turned my attention to my summoner and gave him a proper look over. He was far from the average magician—in fact, I was beginning to doubt that he was one. He was clad in flannel of all things, and the strange gun strapped to his waist did little to help his image. Nothing about him seemed suave or powerful; he just appeared to be a buff, tall man with a brooding expression on his face.

“I want to make a deal,” my summoner said. It was a strange way of wording things, but I didn’t question it. The sooner I got back to the Other Place, the better. I could already feel those aches in my guise’s chest returning.

“Go on,” the boy commented, thoroughly bored by the proceedings. His voice sounded just as a boy’s should, with no deepened or echoing tones. I wanted to keep things simple.

“Bring Dean back from Hell.”

I had heard many, many different requests before, but this one took the cake.

“ _Excuse me_?” I folded my guise’s arms and desperately hoped that my summoner was joking. I could do many things, but defying the natural order of the universe wasn’t one of them. This man—this idiot—had to be a commoner. Not only did he not look the part of a magician, but he somehow managed to lack the little common sense they had when it came to spirits.

“Bring Dean back from Hell, demon,” the man spat out. He didn’t say anything else for the few seconds that followed his command. He just reached for a gun at his side and raised it up. Bullets didn’t exactly have the same effect on me as they would a human, but it still wouldn’t be a pleasant experience to have a highly concentrated piece of metal pierced my essence. “I’ll do anything. Give me ten years. Five. One—I’ll even take a day, if it just means I have Dean back.”

“First off, I prefer high exalted dj-”

The safety was turned off with a loud click.

I got the message.

“And if I say no to any of those,” I guessed, frowning, “you’ll shoot me.”

He just gave me a cold stare.

That was a yes, then.

“Look, I have my limits,” I said. “Need me to go retrieve an artifact that you’ve always been eyeing with your greedy little eyes? I can get it. Need me to build something in an impossibly short period of time? I can do it, though I won’t appreciate it. Need me to sneak around and do a bit of reconnaissance for whatever nefarious guy a big, buff guy like you probably works for? That’s simple. But bringing someone back from the dead? That’s impossible.”

“You’re a demon,” the man said, exasperated.

“Spirit,” I instinctively corrected. After being around for so long, pointing out stuff like that just becomes second nature.

He hesitated, lowering the barrel of the gun ever so slightly as he stared at me. “The scroll said that I was summoning a demon,” he slowly commented. I could practically hear the gears turning in his head; the poor guy probably never had to think so much in his life.

“The scroll was probably written by a magician,” I said, “so there’s going to be just a bit of bias.”

He raised the gun back up again. “You’re not a ghost.”

“Words can have multiple meanings,” I said, nervously eyeing the weapon’s barrel. Why did he have to be so fond of that thing? If it had been any other means of dealing with a spirit, I could have accepted my fate and moved on. But this made me feel uneasy. I had never been summoned by someone using a firearm as their main source of intimidation, and I had no idea when he would decide to use it on me. At least with something like the Inverted Skin I could hear the beginning syllables and realize what was in store.

“I summoned you through a pentacle,” he said. He took a step forward. I eagerly straightened in mine. The lines and runes were all frustratingly (and surprisingly) perfect, but if he took so much as a step out of the pentacle…

He stopped on the very edge.

I shrank back.

This, apparently, was going to be harder than I thought. My summoner was dead set on me being the sort of demon he had heard stories about growing up, and now had impossible expectations for what I could do. I withheld the urge to groan. This was going to be a very long experience. If I was going to get through this ordeal, I was going to have to play my cards right. And, first and foremost, I was going to need this guy’s name.

I held my hands up in mock surrender. “Alright, you got me,” I said. I thought for a moment. Ptolemy’s guise had been perfect when I was first summoned, but I needed something a little more if I wanted to get the information I was looking for. I effortlessly shifted my guise to a youth in his late teens, dressed appropriately like an accountant. I felt a _bit_ guilty about dirtying Nathaniel’s name like this, but he did have the perfect appearance. “I’m a demon. Bartimaeus of Uruk, at your service.”

Should I have been surprised that even Natty boy’s voice seemed to fit the part I was going for?

“So, almighty summoner of mine, who exactly is this ‘Dean’ you want me to bring back from Hell?”

(It never hurt to stroke my summoner’s ego, magician or commoner.)

If my guesses were correct, Dean was either a brother or a lover. He cared far too much about him just for Dean to be a friend. Hopefully, they would share the same last name, whatever the case might be. A trick like this wouldn’t ever work on a magician, but an unassuming commoner would easily fall prey to it.

“Dean is my brother,” he said, narrowing his eyes, “but you should know that.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.” I strode up to the very edge of my pentacle. “But maybe a last name would help jog my memory—is he Dean Smith? Dean Blythe? Dean Hawke-”

“Dean Winchester,” the man impatiently interrupted.

“Ah, yes,” I wisely said. Pacing around the very small rim of the pentacle, I stroked my chin in over-exaggerated thought. I came to a stop back where I began, studying my summoner once more. “That would make you…”

“Sam Winchester.”

I could barely hide my grin. How foolish my summoner was! I honestly couldn’t believe that my ploy had worked—I had expected him to catch on when I started asking for last names.

But just as I was throwing an internal victory party, I noticed that my summoner didn’t look as threatening as he had moments prior. He looked confused. Suspicious might have been another word for it, but it didn’t quite make sense with the way he was watching me.

“Every demon knows who Dean and I are,” Sam Winchester informed me.

I gave an impressed whistle. “I didn’t realize you were so famous.”

He frowned. “Do you work for Lilith?”

This made me falter.

“Who?” I asked. The pompous magician in the pentacle deflated a bit when he realized that his summoner was beginning to catch on to his scheme, then brightened a little more when he then realized that it meant he would likely be dismissed sooner rather than later.

His frown deepened. “If you don’t work for Lilith, then who do you work for?”

“You, technically,” I said, “since you’re the idiot commoner who summoned me.”

The gun was returned to his side. He sighed and ran his fingers through his thick mane of dark brown hair, looking me over with an expression of both disbelief and disappointment on his face. “You’re not a demon, are you?” When I didn’t give an answer, he let out another sigh. “At least, not the type of demon that I thought you were.”

“There you go,” I said.

“You can go, then,” he said. He looked downright miserable now, all of the powerful, terrifying anger have vanished the moment his hopes of seeing his brother again were gone. I wondered briefly why he’d want to see someone who was so bad that he went to Hell, but I soon came to question something else. Where was the spell of dismissal?

I tilted my head ever so slightly to the side. “Are you going to dismiss me, now?”

The frown returned. “I just did.”

“No, you know, dismiss me? Say a bunch of what probably sounds like gibberish in Sumerian, and let me return to the Other Place?” He stared. I groaned, plopping myself down in the center of the pentacle. “That scroll you summoned me with. It must have said something about dismissing me.”

He slowly shook his head. “I don’t…I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he admitted.

Now it was my turn to do the staring.

“You…You don’t know how to dismiss me?” I asked. He nodded just as slowly as he had shook his head before. I didn’t panic. I wisely tried to run through the options, trying to recall the phrases I had heard thousands upon thousands of times. But as I opened my mouth to promptly inform him of what to say, I came to a horrible realization.

_I couldn’t remember it all._

“Well, Sam Winchester,” I said, “it looks like we’re going to be together for awhile.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't posted for this fic in awhile - or even thought of writing it - but I suddenly remembered it was a story that existed today. I'm not sure how good the end of the chapter was, but I do like the beginning. I've had that part for awhile, and I think it did a good job touching on Bart and Sam's current relationship. 
> 
> I'm not sure when or even if I'll write more of this story. But I do have something in mind for the next chapter, so you'll probably see more of this story in the next couple of weeks. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter.

**_Present Day_ **

As promised, Bart was by the Impala.

Dean and Bobby lingered by the entrance to the motel. Sam could feel their gazes on his back as he walked across the pavement. He tried not to imagine what they had to be thinking—he could see it in their eyes when he said that he needed to go talk to Bart. It wouldn't have hurt as much if John had given him that look, but to see Bobby—who had always been more of a father to him—watch him with so much doubt under his baseball cap made Sam feel like he had just been stabbed in the heart by a thousand sharp knives.

Bart raised his head, dark eyes studying him as he leaned back against the hood of the Impala. Everything about this guise was dark. The skin, the hair, the eyes, the clothes; Sam didn't even know that flannel could look so dreary. Bart had a flair for dramatics and appearances that popped, but it looked like both of them would have to get used to something like this.

“What was up with you?” Sam asked.

Bart crossed his arms. “What's wrong with you?” he shot back. There were flecks of gold in his eyes—Sam hoped that he could notice because he had grown so used to searching for familiar details, and not because of his hunter heritage. 

Sam glanced back at Dean and Bobby, breath catching in his throat when he momentarily held Dean's gaze before both turned back to their respective conversations.

“It's Dean,” Sam said. “I know it's him.”

“No one comes back from the dead, Samuel Winchester.” Sam shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another at the mention of his full name. It was a clear dig on his friend's part. Names were especially important to him; before they had become a team, it was the secret weapon that he could rely on to get through his time on Earth. 

He cast another glance back at the other two hunters, then lowered his voice significantly. “I know, _Bartimaeus_.” 

Bart somehow managed to look even more irritated than before.

“Then why do you trust him?” he asked.

Sam took a deep breath, running his fingers through his hair as he thought of a response. Saying that he fully trusted his brother right now wouldn't have been correct. He had trusted Ruby, and Ruby had been...He shook the thought from his mind. Dean Winchester may have returned from the dead as a human, but they still didn't know the means. How could he be sure that Dean was still the same when they had been reunited for less than an hour?

“Because,” Sam weakly answered.

Bart gave him the I'm-five-thousand-years-older-than-you-and-therefore-know-better-than-you look, something that Sam did his best to ignore. This wasn't the world Bart had grown up in; it was the one that Sam had, and he knew that he couldn't jump the gun with Dean just because things seemed a little off.

“If Nathaniel came back,” Sam quietly said, “you know you would trust him.”

Bart stiffened at the name. Sam started to wonder if Dean's mysterious return really was the problem; maybe it was the fact that Bart's loved ones remained in the grave that caused him to storm out of the building.

Not that Bart would ever admit that. It had taken nearly three months before he told him the names of his two most favored guises, and he still didn't know even the basics of their stories. All he knew was that Nathaniel had died far more recently than Ptolemy, due to the differences in clothing and the way that Bart had a tendency to leave the room whenever he tried to ask.

“People don't come back from the dead.”

“Maybe they can,” Sam protested, “and no one's ever figured out how before – our dad brought Dean back before.”

“It still came at a price,” Bart said, studying the nonexistent dirt underneath his fingernails. He leaned against the hood of the Impala; he didn't even spare Sam a glance. “Everything comes at a price, Sam. You just haven't gotten the receipt yet.”

**xXx**

Sam had been excited for a drive in the Impala.

If Dean knew, he would have laughed – it was such a small thing to get excited about, but sitting inside of the car had always made him feel like his brother wasn't so far away. He needed that comfort even now. Dean was just a seat over in the front seat, but Sam felt like they were worlds apart. 

Sam's gaze shifted to the dark road outside of his window. It wasn't hard to ignore Dean. He wasn't talking. Neither was Bart. Their plans to track down the demons was put on hold to help figure out what had brought Dean back, despite Bart's many loud protests. A quick glance back, and Bart looked like a kid who was angry about a long road trip because he wasn't allowed to bring his toys along – he was brooding with his arms crossed as he stared out the window.

The only time that Dean talked was to ask about Ruby and Lilith. Sam gave him the answers he had rehearsed in his head. That Ruby was long gone, and that he knew nothing of the powers that had saved his life. Bart added no witty remarks for the back seat, and Dean, satisfied, settled back into silence.

**xXx**

Dean, unsurprisingly, was _very_ into Bobby's psychic friend. Sam wasn't exactly surprised, but he had forgotten what it was like to be around someone who had a tendency to flirt with every beautiful woman in a ten foot radius. But, to his surprise, even Bart seemed enamored by Pamela. He was listening to her every word, studying her like she was some kind of intriguing puzzle. Sam wished he could know what Bart was thinking as she set up the séance – or, at least, until he started bumping into her.

Sam didn't pick up on it right away, but Bart was definitely trying to get her attention. He kept offering to help her get supplies out, much to Dean's chagrin. He was even brushing his hand up against hers, acting like it was an accident when it clearly wasn't. And while he still had no idea what Bart's motives were, he did understand the plan – Bart was trying to draw attention to himself.

Which was something Sam didn't want him to do when around Dean and Bobby. 

He whispered and poked, but nothing that Sam did could stop his hunting partner. It was only when they sat down around the table that Bart finally started acting like a normal person, and even then he made sure to get a spot right in between Sam and Pamela. Bart's hand felt like the perfect imitation of a human's – the same warmth, the same gentleness. It was hard to imagine what lay beneath. 

Sam turned his attention back to Dean.

The ritual began.

Pamela, after a bit of flirting, placed her hand on the mark left by whatever had brought Dean back. “I invoke, conjure, and command you, appear unto me before this circle,” Pamela began to chant. Sam could feel the shift in the air. It wasn't like when he had stood inside of the pentacle the first time. This was different. It made his chest feel like it had a heavy weight on it, and he couldn't break it no matter how hard he tried. He gripped onto Bart's hand – tight – with the knowledge that this _thing_ was nothing like what he was used to.

But Bobby didn't even flinch.

The static of the TV hummed in the background. 

“I invoke, conjure, and command...” Pamela paused. Sam wished he could open his eyes, but Bart suddenly was squeezing his hand tighter than he had been squeezing Bart's. “Castiel? No. Sorry, Castiel, I don't scare easy.”

“Castiel?” Dean asked.

“Its name,” Pamela said. Bart's hand was shaking now. Sam had never felt him shake so much. Was it out of fear, or was it something else? “It's whispering to me – warning me to turn back.”

The static grew louder.

Suddenly, it wasn't just Bart's hand that was shaking. It was the table, too, and that was when Sam felt truly terrified. “I conjure and command you. Show me your face,” Pamela began to say. It seemed like a horrible idea, but Sam couldn't find the strength to talk. He knew he should have been able to. He was a hunter, and hunters weren't supposed to get intimidated so easily.

But if _Bart_ was scared, just what were they dealing with?

“Maybe we should stop,” Bobby said over the increasingly rattling and static. 

“I almost got it,” Pamela protested. Bart shifted in the seat beside Sam. “I command you! Show me your face! Show me your face now-”

“Don't look-” Bart started to say, but it was too late.

Their eyes flew open as Pamela started screaming and screaming and _screaming_. Sam had never heard cries of pain like that before, and would have been frozen in fear even if the flames didn't suddenly grow in size. It was only when Pamela collapsed and the flames died down that he finally had feeling in his limbs again.

But even as Bobby and Dean scrambled to help her, Bart just kept sitting there in his chair, staring off into the distance like he had seen a ghost. Sam waited until Dean and Bobby had left the room with Pamela to approach Bart again – by then, Bart had finally gotten out of the chair.

“You saw it,” Sam guessed. “You saw Castiel.”

Bart was silent for a moment.

“...I did,” he confirmed.

“What...What was it?” he managed to get out, trying to ignore the memory of Pamela's screams ringing through his head. “Was it some kind of demon?”

“It wasn't a demon,” Bart said. “It wasn't one of your spirits, either. I thought it was a marid when I saw it, but...marids don't do that. _Nothing_ does that.” 

Sam's gaze traveled over to the doorway. “Then what it was it?”

“The receipt,” Bart said, and left it at that.


End file.
